Sarah's Ground (9781439115855)

by Rinaldi, Ann

  “Many times Southern families grow fond of a certain child and treat him or her as their own,” he said.

  I do not understand this business of slavery. I know Upton does, although he owns no slaves himself. He says he grew up with colored people in attendance upon him.

  We found that Wes is just old and sometimes has attacks of delirium tremens. But his mind is in good order. Although his four children are willing to care for him, he keeps telling them he wants to “go home.”

  Home is Mount Vernon for him. He was once overseer here. His son William was once gardener. Upton has found a whole new cache of information now for what the place once looked like, and I know he intends to make use of it. Wes remembers how the gardens were laid out, and Upton is very excited about this.

  So we brought Wes Ford home. He remembered the little room off the kitchen where he used to roost when he lived here, and was delighted to find it still intact. “I’ll just stay in there,” he said, “if it’s all right with you all. It’s near the kitchen and it’s warm, and it’s near the food.”

  The servants Jane, Priscilla, and Emily came to stare at him. They are amazed at his knowledge.

  “One more mouth to feed,” I heard Jane mumble as she went up the stairs to bed. But the others didn’t seem to mind at all.

  I have another scolding letter from Fanny, deriding me because of the argument between me and Mary. “So you are alone again,” she writes, “with that superintendent. Mary tells me how handsome and dashing he is, that his family ties are actually with Washington himself. Those Southern men are all rapscallions, Sarah. I cannot upset Mother and Father by telling them of your indiscretion. I have two choices, it seems: to write to Miss Cunningham and tell her you are still only eighteen, or to come down there myself and hire another girl to stay with you. I am leaning toward the latter. Expect me soon. Your loving sister.”

  “But she can’t come,” I told Upton. I did not show him the letter, for fear it would make him uncomfortable. “She will never get through the lines. Look at what I went through just coming back here from Washington one night.”

  “I will write and explain to her that it is impossible,” he offered.

  “Then shell write to Miss Cunningham and tell her I am only eighteen!”

  “Let her, Sarah. Miss Cunningham can’t do without you now. It’s impossible for her to travel up here. Look at the envelope that letter came in.” It was lying on the table. “It looks as if it’s been to Europe and back. Mail is a doubtful matter these days. I’m afraid you’ll just have to decide. Do you want her here? Or would you rather have her send a letter to Miss Cunningham, which likely won’t get through? There is no more mail between the North and the South.”

  “There is if you use a special messenger.”

  “Being a Northerner, away from the fighting, she won’t know that. Just let her write, and bide your time.”

  What Upton said was right. He thinks so clearly. And he always manages to make me feel better. Oh, I am afraid I am having feelings for him. My sister’s letter brings them to light. It makes me look inward, where I don’t want to look.

  Yes, I do have feelings for Upton. They have been sitting all along inside me, growing, like baby birds in a nest. Getting ready to fly.

  I cannot let them fly. I must rein them in and act like a proper woman. Oh, what would Miss Semple have to say about all this? She always did say that when affairs come to a head between a man and a woman, its usually the woman’s doing. Constantly she reminded “her girls” of the responsibility they had of keeping things proper. Because men are so frail and vulnerable, she told us. They can be led around by the nose by us women. “And if ever one of my girls gets into trouble, I will know it is her fault,” she would say, “and not the young man’s. The responsibility to maintain good behavior rests with you, girls. Remember that.”

  Anyway, Upton has feelings for another. Didn’t he tell me that?

  Wes Ford is well ensconced in Mount Vernon again. Evenings by the fire he tells us stories. He tells how he was a carpenter here, a wheelwright and overseer of the house servants in Judge Bushrod’s time.

  He tells us how, in 1837, he and another man had to open the door of the tomb because there was a leak. “The general’s mahogany coffin was nearly gone, the lid and the head part quite rotten,” he said. “All we could see was the lead coffin. Before that, in 1832, I was there when the general’s remains were inspected. The features, concealed in the winding sheet, were still in place. I myself put my hand over the winding sheet to determine that. But in 1837 the features had fallen in and the sheet was decayed.”

  He told us how he’d refused a bribe from a member of Congress to enter the house when John Augustine lived there. “He was good to me, John Augustine,” he said. “Too bad he got killed in the war.”

  And he knows what the gardens once looked like, how the greenhouse should look if it is restored, and all the things Upton has been trying to find out. They spend many nights by the fire poring over plans.

  Today Emily and Priscilla had a fight again. I came into the house after a walk, and they were near to scratching at each other in the kitchen.

  After I pulled them apart, I demanded to know what the fight was about. “I’s the oldest,” Priscilla said. “I’s supposed to take care of Wes Ford. I’s supposed to give him his medicine from the doctor and make sure he eats. Not her.”

  “He likes me better, you old silly you.” Emily was crying. Her face was swollen and red. It looked as if Priscilla had slapped her. I had to scold them both and come up with a remedy. They should take turns helping Wes Ford. One week for one, and one for the other.

  Personally I agree with Emily. I think Priscilla is an old silly.

  We are starting to restore Martha Washington’s room. Wes tells us that Billy Lee told him that Martha used to have certain of the slaves into her room in a sewing circle. “They had to be mulatto, like my children are,” he told us. “And those in the circle were the envy of all on the plantation.”

  It is good that Wes knew Billy Lee. In 1802, when Wes came here, Billy Lee was still alive. “Billy died in 1828,” he told us, “and all those years I listened to his stories. He served with the master more than thirty years. All through the war he was by his side. He hunted with him and attended him faithfully.”

  As the fire crackled at night, and the autumn wind and leaves rattled around the house and we roasted chestnuts, Wes’s creaky voice imparted to us the stories of how it was in the general’s time, handed down from Billy Lee.

  Both Upton and I know we have a treasure in Wes. It is as if another genuine piece from the house, like the harpsichord, has been returned to us.

  Nineteen

  One would think there was no war on. And there really hasn’t been all this fall. Everyone is complaining because McClellan is letting the beautiful fall days slip by without using his army. On both sides, it seems, the generals and leaders meet and bicker, like Emily and Priscilla in the kitchen. The papers say they are discussing grand strategy. It sounds so much like men!

  Oh, there have been skirmishes. One at Springfield Station here in Virginia, another in Missouri, of all places. I cannot imagine this war reaching all the way into Missouri. Upton says that he read that the citizens of Chincoteague Island, Accomac County, here in Virginia, all took the oath of allegiance to the United States before Federal naval officers.

  The country truly is torn apart.

  In the middle of the month there was a battle. Some call it Ball’s Bluff, others the Battle of Leesburg, here in Virginia. The Confederates won.

  It frightens me. Suppose they win the war? What kind of country will this be? Two countries, I suppose. And Upton will live in one and I in the other.

  There is more news. We have nothing confirmed yet, but some soldiers who visited told us that the western part of Virginia has broken off from the rest of the state and gone Union. My word, those people took a stand! And here I sit, struggling to remain neut
ral, making the soldiers put shawls over their uniforms before they visit the tomb!

  Here I sit, making coffee bean bracelets. Will I be sorry for all this someday? I wish I could really do something for the war. Now I know how Upton feels, having to stay out of the army.

  Today I got so excited. A messenger delivered a letter from Mary in Philadelphia. I was excited because I’d written to her apologizing for my part of the fracas, and now I would know she had forgiven me.

  But it was not to be. And my spirits not only fell, they crashed to the very floor of my soul and broke to pieces inside me.

  What she said I could scarce believe.

  She said my family had arranged all of it, all of this for me. From the very beginning.

  “You think you went against your mother and father when you took the job?” she asked. “They planned the whole thing because they had been told about Upton Herbert, and they saw him as a good husband for you. Of course, the idea was mentioned casually in front of you by your mother and father’s friends, and you jumped at it. You had the Maxwells and Goodriches write letters for an interview, yes. Well, whose friends are they? Your parents’. Your mother and father allowed you to think the idea was yours and even objected somewhat, if you will recall.

  “No, age was never mentioned by anybody. But I know that after you wrote to Miss Cunningham, your mother and father wrote, asking if you could have the job. She was urged to keep it secret from you. I know you lied about your age, because Upton told me you had. Only to ask me to keep it a secret.

  “You think you are so smart, Sarah Tracy. Which is why I was so angry. I knew about the whole thing. Your family kept writing and asking me to come to you there and act as chaperone. You see, the whole thing was arranged with my collusion, because I was supposed to be chaperone. Then my mother became sick, and I couldn’t come. Then other things happened. I broke my ankle. I was afraid.

  “They kept writing to me, asking me to come. Reminding me of my obligation. So I came. And look what happened. Tell me, do you think I would have flirted seriously with Upton when I knew this had been arranged for your benefit? I was just being helpful. Which is why I am so hurt. And I shall not forgive you.”

  Oh! The deceit of it! Oh, I walked around all day bumping into things because I could not believe it. I was so angry with my family! So humiliated. It all had been arranged. And my parents had helped! And Miss Cunningham knew of it but never said.

  I felt so humiliated! My mind whirled, trying to put it all together. So, they had planned this all, sent me here, let me walk into all of this.

  They had made me think it was my idea! Allowed me to think I was deceiving them, rebelling against them.

  I felt like a fly walking into the trap of a spider. Oh, I’d felt so superior, so smart. And it was just one more place they’d arranged for me to go, like New York City or Maryland, to find a husband!

  I was a horse again, being sent to the auctions in Kentucky!

  All day my mind kept going round and round, trying to put the whole thing together, trying to figure out who’d had a part in the deceit and who hadn’t. And then my mind stopped.

  Did Upton know?

  Oh, I couldn’t bear it if he knew! I’d die!

  I’d leave tomorrow if he knew. I couldn’t stay. I racked my brain trying to remember things he’d said to me, ways he’d acted, to determine if he knew. But I could find none.

  So, what to do then? Go on as if nothing had happened? Fool them all? Or confront Upton and decide then and there?

  Oh, I must think about it. I must give myself time. That was it. I’d take Miss Semple’s advice. “Girls, if you are ever in a quandary, don’t make instant decisions unless your life depends upon it. Think it over a day. Sleep on it.”

  I would do that. I would sleep on it.

  Oh, that terrible Mary! I’d write and give her a piece of my mind. I would.

  But then something else happened to make me forget my troubles.

  A letter came by special messenger from Mrs. Burke, wife of the man who owns the bank in Alexandria with Upton’s brother Arthur.

  It was addressed to me.

  Upton handed it to me, scowling, for at first he had thought it was bad news about Colonel Arthur Herbert, his brother. But then, why would it be addressed to me?

  “Do you know her very well?” he asked.

  “No.” I opened the letter.

  “Mrs. Burke wants me to come to their house tomorrow,” I said. “And bring a basket of fresh eggs.”

  More scowling. “Something is wrong,” Upton said. “They buy their eggs in Alexandria.”

  “She wants me to come alone.”

  “Somethings not right,” Upton insisted.

  “Well, I’m going anyway,” I said with firmness. I wasn’t going to let him boss me around, even though he was picked for me as a husband. I felt a surge of excitement. Maybe I would finally be asked to do something for the war.

  Martha Burke was, after all, the great-granddaughter of Thomas Jefferson. She had been born at Monticello. I busied myself the rest of the day, all the while thinking wild thoughts. I imagined her the center of a spy ring, and me helping her. But the spy ring would be Southern, then, wouldn’t it? No, I convinced myself, it would be Northern. Because of her heritage she would want to save the country. I had heard of Southerners all over who were secretly with the Union.

  And if it was Southern, why, I could politely refuse to help, saying I must stay neutral.

  But here is my chance to do something.

  Well, I was right. At least partway. And I have done something important! Oh, it was so exciting!

  Early in the morning I set out down the long road from Mount Vernon to Alexandria. Alone. And with a basket of fresh eggs in the buggy.

  I first passed Gum Springs, where the colored descendants of Washington’s slaves live. Then another five miles, through camps of soldiers who all looked and waved. Some shouted. Some whistled. Some tipped their hats as I went by. I kept my head high and looked straight ahead.

  I’d taken this road many times. I was not afraid. When I got to Alexandria, I saw that the little town was filled to the brim with soldiers. They loitered on the brick walks. They walked in groups. They were going in and out of the stores. And there seemed to be an inordinate amount of civilians, too.

  Finally I got to John and Martha’s house and went inside.

  It was like a social visit. Martha had her maid serve me tea and biscuits. She asked about Mount Vernon and Upton. I told her how we’d brought Wes Ford to live with us and the stories he knew about General Washington.

  All the while my basket of eggs rested on the floor. She did not ask for them.

  Then Mr. Burke came in, bade me hello, sat down, and spoke quietly to me.

  “Miss Tracy,” he said, “I wonder if you could help us and do something for the Washington family.”

  “John Augustine’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  So he told me what he wanted. It seems that when the Union army took Alexandria, the money and bonds that the Association had paid John Augustine for Mount Vernon were in a safe in the Burke and Herbert Bank.

  Then, the other day, came an order from the Union headquarters that the money was to be confiscated. So Mr. Burke took the money and bonds from the bank safe and brought them home. There he hid them in the mahogany wardrobe in their bedroom.

  Union soldiers had come two days ago, asking for the money. They searched the house from bottom to top, going into every crevice, upsetting clothes, dishes, books, personal papers. But they did not look in the mahogany wardrobe.

  “But I knew they soon would,” he said. “Because they said they would be back. So yesterday I got an old friend who is a carpenter to come to the house. He lifted a board in the hallway upstairs and put the money underneath. But we knew the search party was coming back. Today. So that’s why we wrote to you.”

  “What do you want me to do?�
� I asked. Though I already knew. Though my heart was beating rapidly.

  “I want you to empty the eggs out of your basket,” he said. “I will pull up the floorboard and get out the money and bonds. I will put them in the bottom of your basket, then I’ll put the eggs on top. Then, if you would be so kind, Miss Tracy, you could ride into Washington City. Go to Mr. Riggs’s bank and there rent a safety-deposit box. And put the money in and bring me back the key. Do you think you can do that for us? And for the Washington family? And the Association?”

  Yes, I thought I could. Yes, I would. I did, after all, have things to make up for with John Augustine Washington.

  I bade them good-bye. Then, like the perfect little woman of the house, I got into my buggy with the basket. I set it down carefully so the eggs would not be broken, turned the horse s head, waved good-bye so all within sight, who were mostly soldiers, could see me, and drove ahead on the road to Washington.

  I must have passed tens of thousands of soldiers, both walking in groups and in camps. Again some waved and some gave impertinent catcalls and some raised their hats. And I played the demure farm girl delivering eggs.

  At every sentry point, of course, I was stopped. I had to show my pass. I was, at two stops, asked about the eggs.

  “Who are they for?” one sentry asked me.

  “Friends in Washington.” I must continue to look pleasant. I mustn’t be frightened.

  “You wouldn’t care to sell some to us?”

  That was their concern. They wanted fresh eggs. “No, I’m afraid I must bring these to my friend. She’s sickly, and the ones in Washington aren’t that fresh off the farm.”

  “The only thing fresh off the farm in Washington is our president,” one of the men said. And I saw his officer scowl. But they let me pass.

  Each time I had to stop, my heart raced. I felt my hands sweat. But I flashed my most flirtatious smile, which I hated to do, and always said something nice to the soldiers, and soon they were distracted enough not even to see the basket of eggs.

  I crossed the bridge without difficulty too and got into the city. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds, and the day was getting chilled. But oh, the city seemed so different from the last time I was there. Rather than marching, soldiers seemed to slink about and not look at anybody. There were no waving flags, no martial music, no young girls gathered around the encampments.